


Making It Up (As We Go Along)

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Fights, Forgiveness, Friendship/Love, Kissing, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is still struggling to fully understand and accept his feelings shortly after beginning a tentative romantic relationship with John. When a miscommunication between the two gets out of hand and sparks an argument, will he be able to get his doctor back? <br/>Reviews are to me as murder is to Sherlock! Without them, I get sad and sit around shooting smiley faces into walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fight

Sherlock's chest was tight. He couldn't seem to fill his lungs, and every time he tried to take the deepest breath possible, it made his chest ache still more. He tried shifting position; sitting up, bending over, laying down with his head slightly elevated. When none of that worked, he just lay in his usual position on the couch with his hand over his heart, feeling it beat and trying to ignore the straining of his lungs.   
He wondered if he was coming down with something. Bronchitis? Perhaps pneumonia, or tuberculosis. Surely that was more likely than that his emotional state was affecting him physically.   
If his physical body was useful only for transport, Sherlock considered emotions almost entirely superfluous (in himself, anyway; they were often quite useful when dealing with suspects). Or, at least, he had felt that way until John Watson had entered his life, curse the day. He'd never intended for John to become anything other than a flatmate, but now he was more. So much more; more than any person had ever been to Sherlock. First friend, and then, as of quite recently, cautious lover.   
Cautious because John, as Sherlock knew, still was not wholly convinced that Sherlock reciprocated (or, to be more precise, was capable of reciprocating) the feelings he'd admitted to him scarcely three weeks before. Those three weeks had been terrifying, but bloody amazing. Sherlock had begun to come to terms with his inescapable, undeniable attraction to John, and they'd fallen into a more gentle style of interaction, whereby they touched more often, talked more softly, patched up hurtful words with kind ones, and sometimes even kissed.   
And now Sherlock may have ruined the whole thing.   
He bit his lips, wishing John were there to kiss them instead, and thought back to the fight they'd had that morning, regretful and bitter...

“It is too bloody early for this,” John groaned as he stumbled, eyes half-closed, out of the cab.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes, set back his shoulders, and strode purposefully forward. “Don't complain, John,” he said. “I can't fathom how you sleep as much as you do anyway.”   
“I sleep considerably less than I did before I lived with you.”   
“And in exchange...” Sherlock brushed his hand over John's, seeking to remind him of what he'd gained from their arrangement: a boyfriend who, though he'd had trouble admitting it and still had trouble expressing it, was utterly mad for him.   
To Sherlock's surprise, John reddened slightly and flinched away from his touch. That was a strange bit of data; usually John reacted quite positively to Sherlock's hesitant efforts at showing affection.   
“Something wrong?” Sherlock asked.   
“Not...in public,” John said, so quietly Sherlock almost didn't hear him.   
Sherlock slowed his steps a bit, a first for him when approaching a crime scene. “Why not?” He was honestly confused, which he hated being.  
“Not yet,” John said. “Just...act like normal.”   
Sherlock sped up again, a bit disturbed by the fact that he was rather put out by what John had said. They were a couple; John had said so. So why couldn't they act like one?   
Before Sherlock could ponder this further, they reached the center of the field, where a rectangle of crime scene tape had been haphazardly constructed with stakes. As they walked, the strong wind tore one strand free of its post and it began to flap noisily.   
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade approached as they stepped over the crime scene tape (due to it being attached to stakes in the middle of a grassy expanse, it was quite low to the ground, and so there was not much point in going under it like usual), looking every bit as tired as John. It was near the end of his shift—nearly six in the morning, and he'd gotten the call about the murder around five.   
“How long ago?” Sherlock asked, approaching the body beside Lestrade.   
“Coroner said midnight, give or take an hour,” Lestrade replied. He glanced at John. “You can take a look if you like.” By this point he knew John would do so anyway; it was technically a breach of protocol, but Sherlock had insisted upon it at every scene since the Pink Lady.   
Without a word, John bent down beside the body. The tips of his ears were still pink, and Sherlock wasn't sure if that was because of the chilly wind or because he was still flustered from moments before.   
Methodically, John examined the body: that of a man, early- to mid-forties, Caucasian, with dark hair. After a moment, he stood up. “Blow to the head,” he said, “but that wasn't what killed him.”   
“Clearly not; he has a gunshot wound in his neck,” said Sherlock crisply. “I can see that from here.”   
“I was getting to that,” John said testily. “I don't think the blow made him lose consciousness-”   
“Of course it wouldn't have,” Sherlock interjected. “He was hit in the back of the head, not the temple, for one thing. For another, there's not enough of a mark for there to have been significant impact-”   
“Will you shut up?” John asked loudly.   
“Gentlemen,” Lestrade said tiredly. “No need for this. Go on, John. John,” he added pointedly, looking at Sherlock.   
Sherlock crossed his arms.   
John cleared his throat. “The attacker probably just wanted to stun him for a moment, not knock him completely out.”   
“Suggesting the attacker wanted him to see who he—or she—was, suggesting that this man knew his attacker,” Sherlock added.   
John ignored him. “The shot to the neck came after the blow to the head, and killed him instantly.”   
“Yes, a shot to the neck will often result in that,” said Sherlock sardonically. “Brilliant analysis, John; now what does it all mean? The important question here.”   
John shot him a glare, but Sherlock wasn't interested. As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, John had hurt him a bit when he'd pulled away. He'd been slowly pouring out his soul to the man over the past few weeks, since they'd had their explosive night-long chat about sexuality, attraction, affection, and all things thereto pertaining that had resulted in their first kiss and eventually falling asleep in each other's arms for the first time, and now he was just brushing him off? Sherlock hated that even as he hated himself for being so irrationally affected by it.   
Restlessly, Sherlock began circling the crime scene, prowling about, looking for anything that could help him find this killer. He'd focus on that. It was more important, and nothing he'd get unnecessarily emotional over. Of that he could be sure. 

“What was that all about, eh?” John asked angrily as they arrived back at 221B several hours later.   
“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked lightly. Paying attention to the crime had helped him distance himself from John emotionally, and he was feeling quite back to normal; a state of affairs that, unfortunately, was not to last.   
“Undermining me at every turn, trying to get one up on me. Ignoring every suggestion I made. In short, making me feel like a bloody idiot,” John snapped.   
“Well, you weren't exactly on top of your game today,” Sherlock replied. He wasn't going to mention John's brushing him off earlier; that would plunge him right back into his emotions, and he didn't feel like dealing with that at the moment. He'd put that into a back room in his mind palace, to be dealt with at a later time; preferably when he and John were having another of their long conversations.   
He had to swallow the longing he felt when he thought about that.   
“How do you know? You barely let me finish a sentence the whole time!”   
“I had a crime to investigate.” Casually, Sherlock stripped off his scarf and gloves and began unbuttoning his coat.   
“What's that supposed to mean?” John asked. “In case you haven't noticed, I've been investigating crimes with you for months.”   
“And I was successfully doing it without you for years,” Sherlock returned, “and it's obvious why.”   
“What the hell are you talking about?” John exploded.   
Sherlock was often sarcastic, could even be insulting, but usually it was just him telling the truth. This, however, was something else. He wanted to hurt John. He certainly didn't want to talk to him civilly. He was angry, and that was good. Anger was easier to understand than attachment. So he piled on, unable to stop himself, barely aware of why he was doing it.   
“You're a rather mediocre detective, John,” he said. “As a matter of fact, you're not a detective at all; you're an army doctor who wrongly thinks he can fit in elsewhere.”   
“Bloody hell!” John shouted. “Shall I just go back to the army, then? Will that make you happy?”   
“One less annoyance in my life,” said Sherlock, “and one less thing dragging me down on investigations.”   
“Oh, so now I'm a drag.”   
“Absolute dead weight,” said Sherlock, deadpan.   
John flushed. “I can't believe this,” he said. His voice softened a bit. “Sherlock, I thought you...I thought we were-”   
“Well, you thought wrong. It was an experiment, and now it's over.”   
John froze, and Sherlock knew exactly why: he'd been afraid, all along, that Sherlock would say that.   
“You bastard,” John almost whispered. “Don't you know how I feel about you?”   
“After today, it's clear I don't.”   
“And you don't care.” John's voice was flat now.   
Sherlock didn't want to say it. Deep inside, he didn't want to. But he did: “No.”   
A look of absolute hurt came over John's face. “Fine,” he said stiffly. “I knew you were a complete prat, but I wanted to believe we had something that could get us past that. But if not..” he swallowed, “well, fine.”   
Not half an hour later, he was gone, and Sherlock was alone. 

It was some consolation, Sherlock thought, sucking air into his constricted chest, almost beginning to consider letting himself cry, that John had not taken all his things with him. Eventually he'd have to come back for the rest.   
He didn't know where John was, and that bothered him. He was so used to having him close by. He missed him desperately, and he regretted every word he'd said. All he wanted was to tell John the real reason he'd said all those things: he was being petty due to his hurt. If he could just make John understand that, would he forgive him?   
There were few things Sherlock hated more than admitting he was wrong, but he was starting to think that John might be worth it.   
Hand still pressed to his chest, he sat up and reached for his phone, which lay on the coffee table in front of him. Slowly, he dialed John's number.   
One ring. Two. Sherlock shut his eyes. Please pick up, John. Please.   
Fourth ring, then a click, and a gruff voice: “This had better be good, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock swallowed, partly out of relief to hear that voice, partly out of reluctance to shove down his pride and say what he wanted to say, and partly out of fear that John would shout at him. “John,” he said softly, “come home.”


	2. What Was That All About?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, and especially everyone who left comments! I cannot stress enough how happy comments make me!!   
> In which Sherlock and John explain themselves, and maybe make up....

Restless nervousness drove Sherlock to pacing as he waited for John. John had said, albeit in a rather clipped, definitely still-angry tone, that he would come back to 221B—that was what he'd said, “back to 221B”, not “back home” as Sherlock would have preferred—and hear what Sherlock had to say. He wasn't giving up on them, at least not right away, which was enough to allow Sherlock to forget the pain in his chest for a moment.   
He was angry at himself for hurting John, and more importantly, for wanting to hurt John. Lord knew he'd insulted John plenty of times before, but never to the point that it had driven him from the flat for longer than it took to “get some air”, as John would diplomatically put it, and certainly not since they'd become a couple.   
Sherlock sighed at the thought of the word “couple”. Truth be told, he knew they were still a very tentative couple. He hadn't been lying when he'd told John that romantic relationships weren't his area. They weren't, at all. But John made everything different. He made Sherlock willing to try.   
Although he didn't like to admit it, Sherlock was bad at many things. Admitting he was wrong, for example. Apologizing. Loving. Asking for help. But now, he was realizing, he would need to do all those things.   
The fact that he was even willing to consider it was a mark of how strongly he felt for John.   
Disliking the twitchy, restless feeling that was coming over him, Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play. Just scales; nothing too involved, nothing he would get lost in so that he wouldn't notice when John came.   
He was halfway through playing his fourth G-major scale when he heard the door to the flat open behind him. “Put down the bloody violin,” came John's loud, agitated voice, “and look at me, because you've got a lot to answer for.”   
Slowly, Sherlock lowered the violin and laid it down. John was right to launch into this without preamble, he thought. He had a feeling that this was going to be their first—hopefully not their last---real test as a couple. To see if they really could be lovers.   
Sherlock swallowed. “Hello, John,” he said. “Thank you for coming back.”   
“If the next thing you say doesn't make it worth it, I will walk straight back out that door,” John threatened. He sank into his favorite chair and looked Sherlock dead in the eyes, glowering, challenging.   
Sherlock took a deep breath. “When I tried to analyze our first kiss,” he said, “you said I should focus more on my emotions. Well, today I followed that advice too well. I focused too much on them, and they got the better of me.”   
John looked skeptical, but he did not get up and leave. “So you said what you feel?” he asked. “You think I'm dead weight?”   
“Of course not!” Sherlock nearly exploded. How had John misunderstood him so completely? “I was...hurt by the way you moved away from me, and I wanted to hurt you back. Apparently I succeeded.”   
“Oh, you did a wonderful job.” John shot to his feet, and for a moment Sherlock was afraid that he would leave, but he did not; he simply began pacing the flat, as Sherlock had been doing before he'd arrived. “I'm used to you calling me an idiot and being unappreciative, but I always thought that under all that, you valued my contributions.”   
“I do! John, I-”   
“Listen to me! For once, just fucking listen to me. I am tired of you making me feel like your inferior. Maybe I can't assess a crime scene in a single glance like you can, and maybe I'm a slave to my emotions, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid.”   
“I know,” Sherlock said. “Or at least, it means I'm just as stupid as you are, since I failed to control my emotions.”   
John narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”   
“I tried to hold your hand when we were walking to the crime scene. You brushed me off. I didn't understand it, and it hurt. I decided I wanted to hurt you back. That's why I said the things I did. Not because I really believed them.”   
Now Sherlock could see surprise on John's face, and he felt relieved to see something other than anger.   
“So...” John sat back down, which Sherlock took as another positive sign. “You didn't mean it.”   
“Clearly not.”   
“And it was all because I didn't take your hand?”   
Sherlock sighed. “Does it sound as ridiculous to you as it does to me?”   
“No.” John rubbed his temples in small, circular motions, apparently deep in thought. “I didn't think it would hurt you.”   
“Well, it did.”   
“Sherlock.” John stood up again and approached Sherlock, standing just a few feet in front of him. Sherlock felt a sudden, desperate urge to take him into his arms, but he did not. He knew they weren't done talking yet.   
“I'm sorry, John,” Sherlock said. “Truly.”   
“God knows you'd never have said that if it weren't true.” John almost smiled, but not quite. Still angry.   
“Can you tell me why?” Sherlock asked. “Why you didn't want to hold hands? You told me last week, Wednesday, around 10 PM, that you would like me to initiate more physical contact. Why did you react that way when I did?”   
John sighed and began pacing again, but more slowly this time, his eyes on the ground instead of on his partner. “Because I'm afraid,” he said. “You've heard me insist over and over that I'm not gay. I don't know how to act now that I know I was wrong.”   
“I see. You've made your sexuality so much a part of your self-image that changing it is frightening for you.” He pressed his palms together thoughtfully. “You'd have been better off doing what I did: simply not making it a part of your image at all.”   
“Not helping, Sherlock,” John said irritably.   
“Right, well. Maybe I'm frightened too. Of something else.”   
John's green eyes widened slightly. Sherlock thought that he'd really better appreciate this conversation; Sherlock never bared so much of himself to anyone like he was doing now, and it was feeling less and less like a good idea.   
“What might that be?” John asked.   
“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,” Sherlock said. “I have never liked to lose.”   
“So you're afriad of sentiment.”   
“In a word, yes.”   
“Well.” John sat down again, not in the chair this time but on the couch behind Sherlock. After a moment's pause, Sherlock sat beside him. Their shoulders and thighs were touching, but only slightly.   
“What exactly is it that you're afraid will happen if we, as they say, 'come out'?” Sherlock asked. He was genuinely curious; he had no problem with the idea of anyone knowing that he was gay, as John obviously did about people knowing he was bisexual.   
John leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his forehead. “I don't really know. I guess I think they'll see me as less of a man, or something.”   
“Well, does knowing I'm gay make you think less of me?”   
“Of course not.” John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. “I actually rather enjoy the fact that you're gay.”   
“Well, it'll be no different for you. Aren't you tired of hiding who you are?”   
It had never occurred to John that he was hiding who he was, or at least, that was what Sherlock deduced from the suddenly surprised expression that fell over his face. “Well?” Sherlock prompted. “Aren't you?”   
John bit his lower lip. “I'm more tired of hiding you.”   
“Then don't.” Hesitantly, Sherlock reached for John's hand, and John threaded his fingers through his. “I am truly sorry for what I said, John,” he told his partner.   
John gently cradled Sherlock's other hand. “And I'm sorry for pushing you away. I really didn't think it would hurt you...well, I guess I didn't think at all about how it would make you feel,” he admitted. “I always sort of had in the back of my mind the idea that you don't really want this.”   
“I had some doubts myself,” Sherlock replied honestly. Again, he was opening up.   
For no one but John.   
“And now?” John asked quietly.   
“Well.” Sherlock met John's gaze. “There's really no certainty, is there? But I can tell you that I feel less...resistant.”   
John swallowed. “A step in the right direction, to be sure.”   
“I'm very new at this.”   
“I know.”   
“But I want it.” Sherlock glanced down at their entwined hands, then back up at John's face. It was the first time in his life he had ever wanted to try so hard for one person. Relationships took what he had always felt was an unnecessarily taxing amount of effort, but for some reason, he found himself more than willing to put that effort in for John. “Don't know what it is that makes you so bloody special,” he added, “but the thought that I might lose you caused me physical pain, and all I could think of was getting you back. Clearly, that has to mean something.”   
John frowned slightly, a bit less than content with such a noncommittal phrase. “'Something'?” he repeated. “What sort of 'something'?”   
“I told you,” Sherlock said slowly, “sentiment.” Sentiment too strong to ignore, and impossible to push away, even for the disciplined, structured mind of Sherlock Holmes. Even for a man who could go days without food or sleep as long as his mind was occupied, simply staying away from the object of the most extreme sentiment he'd ever felt proved too much. It was a curse, it had to be, but the more Sherlock thought about it, the less he cared.   
“How about this,” John said slowly. “I want you to close your eyes, and then I want you to focus on how you feel, and only how you feel. No data, no damned mind palace. Can you do that?”   
Now it was Sherlock who nervously bit down on his lip. He honestly wasn't sure he could. He was so used to meticulously cataloguing everything that happened, collecting information as if life were one continuous experiment. “I don't know how,” he admitted softly.   
He heard John's sharp intake of breath. “Did you really just admit that there's something you don't know?”   
“Isn't that enough proof that I want you?”   
“I'm not asking for proof. I'm asking for trust.”   
Sherlock held John's gaze steadily. “Give me a moment,” he said. Carefully, he pulled his hands back from John's and spread them on his lap, studying them as he mentally stepped outside of his mind palace, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind him.   
He closed his eyes to indicate to John that he was ready. For a moment, nothing happened, and Sherlock began to wonder whether John had understood his sign of consent. Just then, he felt the tips of John's finger touch his face, right where his jaw met his neck. The touch was so light that it almost tickled as John traced over the skin, moving slowly down his neck, never with more than his first few fingertips.   
Sherlock drew in a breath as he felt John's fingers migrate from his neck, up over his Adam's apple and back to his jaw. Sherlock felt the light, careful scrape of John's fingernails. The fingers disappeared for a moment, and Sherlock felt himself straining forward slightly, hoping for more. John left him hanging for a good five seconds before he began tracing over Sherlock's cheekbones, up to his temples, just skimming the curls at the nape of his neck, clutching for a brief second before moving on. He just brushed over Sherlock's eyelashes, then stopped again.   
And then, Sherlock felt John cup his neck with both hands, lean forward, and kiss him. The kiss was as light as John's touches had been, and Sherlock absolutely melted into it, in a way he wouldn't have thought possible. Their lips moved slowly, carefully, and tenderly together; no tongue, no teeth, just gentle lips.   
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and drew him closer; John placed his hands on Sherlock's waist, and they stayed like that, just kissing, for several long, trembling moments before John broke the kiss.   
Sherlock felt a bit of disappointment when he looked into John's eyes, wishing he could kiss him again.   
“Well?” John asked softly, fingers circling on Sherlock's hip bones. “How did that feel?”   
“It-” Sherlock swallowed. “I...wonderful. Soft, and careful, and wonderful. John, kiss me again, please-”   
“I'll kiss you as much as you like,” John replied, “if that's what you want. If this is what you want.” His hands tightened nervously, which of course, Sherlock noticed.   
Sherlock gripped the back of John's head. “I want this,” he said. “I want you. Help me understand.”   
John nodded in wholehearted consent. “Yes,” he said simply. “And this is no secret anymore.”   
“No secret,” Sherlock echoed. He drew John still closer. “No data.”   
“Just us,” John finished, and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock's forehead.   
Sherlock closed his eyes at the affectionate press of John's lips to his skin. Just them. He could live with that.


End file.
